


Gone

by Trawler



Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Iron Man (Movies), IronStrange - Fandom, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, PTSD, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:40:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26108860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trawler/pseuds/Trawler
Summary: Tony and Stephen's jobs take them away from each other for long periods of time, without the certainty that they'll ever come home.Tony has been alone for two months now. He's not sure he can cope for much longer...
Relationships: Tony Stark/Stephen Strange
Comments: 2
Kudos: 73





	Gone

“Hey, Wong, how’s it going –”

“Stephen has not returned.”

Wong’s interruption had no physical substance, but it was still enough to break me.

“No word yet?”

“Nothing. I do not sense his presence in our dimension.” I felt the weight of his regret. “I am sorry, Tony.”

“Right… uh, I’m just gonna... I’ve got a thing, you know how it is... OK, ‘bye now.” I ended the call before he could speak again. 

I paced the lab, linking both hands behind my neck, staring at the ceiling as if it could somehow give me the strength to get through this. 

Stephen’s role as Sorcerer Supreme took him away for days at a time. Weeks, even. I’d... well, I wanted to say I’d accepted that, but it would be more correct to say I’d grown accustomed to those absences. I appreciated every minute we had together, and missed him like hell when he was gone. 

This time? He’d been in the field almost two months. No contact. I wasn’t just worried; I was fucking terrified. I woke up every morning, hoping – _praying_ – that he’d be cooking us breakfast when I went down to the kitchen, complaining that Wanda never threw away the empty OJ bottle, that Petey had left yet another dirty bowl in the sink.

I couldn’t get my brain around the fact that he might not come back at all. 

I’d always known it was a possibility. And not just for him. Our careers had short shelf lives; we were more likely to die on the job than live long enough to retire. I’d more or less come to terms with that, although in my head it always happened at some hazy point in the future.

But when he’d been gone so long? That future didn’t seem far away at _all._ It was impossible to give myself the same pep talks I had in the early days of our relationship. 

Right now I was scared. And alone.

I couldn’t share this with the other Avengers. I couldn’t put my problems on them. I’d been in the game long enough to understand that we all had the same fears – the same uncertainties – but because we’d started our journeys alone, just learning how to work together had been a problem. Figuring out how to talk about our feelings seemed like a step too far.

So I did what I always did when I couldn’t deal: - I worked. 

~~~&~~~

Hours later I stumbled into my bedroom. I needed sleep. Craved it, even, with the bone-deep weariness that came with both mental and physical exhaustion. Whether or not I’d be able to asleep – and stay that way long enough to recharge my batteries – was a different matter. 

Afghanistan had been a long time ago. The Battle of New York had been a long time ago. But the PTSD stayed with me, even after years of therapy, and after each battle I fell just a little bit deeper. Even though I’d learned how to cope (more or less) I still suffered nightmares, flashbacks. Stephen got me through them. Knowing I had someone to hold onto when shit got bad – someone who had suffered his own trauma, and knew exactly what I was going through – that meant everything to me.

When he _wasn’t_ here… when all I had to look forward to was more nightmares… the idea of rest felt like someone else’s dream. 

But if I slept? Time would pass. Like a little kid who hoped Santa would come in the night, I needed Stephen to be here when I woke up. 

So I stripped out of my clothes and tumbled into bed. The cool sheets felt good against my heated skin. Too fucking stressed to calm down properly, that was my problem. 

I closed my eyes and imagined Stephen was out there somewhere – whole and well – and that he’d come back to me. 

~~~&~~~

I drifted. Too anxious to fall under, too exhausted to stay awake. The darkness felt like a void and I was floating, falling, thumping back down over and over and over. I was so goddamned tired. And so goddamned lonely. 

So lonely I imagined an orange ring materialise in the dark. So lonely I imagined Stephen stumbling through, the hellish portal-light making the sweat on his face shine. His clothes were ripped and torn –

Hang on, why would I imagine him like _that –_

He was real. Oh, _god,_ he was _real!_

“Lights!” I croaked, surging out of bed. A soft glow filled the room. I remembered I was naked, then decided I didn’t give a fuck.

Stephen looked awful: - his normally pale skin seemed almost translucent, and there were streaks of dirt and dried blood on his face. His _eyes..._ I’d never seen that look in his eyes before. It was wild. On the edge. The gaze of a man who’d endured too much.

We came together in the middle of the room, the portal collapsing into nothing. He wrapped his arms around me. Buried his face against my shoulder. I held him, silent, trembling, just revelling in the fact that he was _here._

When his dry, cracked lips pressed against the side of my neck, I realised we wouldn’t be doing much talking right now. That was OK. Talking would come later, after my hands and mouth and dick had affirmed he wasn’t a figment of my imagination. 

When I moved to unfasten the first of his fifty billion belts, a caress of fabric over my fingers drew my attention to the Cloak of Levitation. I gave the material a gentle tug to say hello.

The Cloak shivered and disengaged from Stephen’s shoulders. It slid over my back, briefly enveloping us in a hug that felt... fuck, it was so good I almost cried. I felt the Cloak’s joy, its relief – and, yeah, love. But more important than that, I felt its trust, the understanding that Stephen was where he needed to be and that I’d take care of him. 

The Cloak gave us both a single long, lingering squeeze before rippling toward the door. It opened it with a deft grip and slipped through, leaving us alone.

Stephen kept his face pressed against the side of my neck. No more kisses. Just fast, uneven breaths. Where the hell had he been, that he needed to just... just hold me like this? What had he done? What had been done to him?

I couldn’t ask those questions. Not now, not when he was like this. In fact I didn’t think I was ever going to ask. Something awful had happened and he couldn’t verbalise it right now. I’d suffered enough of my own trauma to know he’d tell me when – or if – he was ready. 

When he raised his head again, gaze meeting mine, I knew I’d made the right decision. The wild look in his eyes had intensified. Deepened. I recognised that look; I’d seen it too many times before in the mirror. It was the look of a man who hadn’t just faced death, he’d fought it, kicking and screaming, but lost something more important than his life. I had the sense he was only holding on with the barest of grips. 

My fears melted away. Right now his terror was deeper than mine. I saw it raging through him, tearing him apart from the inside. 

I had to be stronger than that. For him – for us – I had to be his rock.

I held him tight, threading my fingers through his hair and encouraging him to put his head back on my shoulder. His arms became crushing, the grip of a desperate man. His shoulders shook. He was crying.

I just held him and let him hold me. Soothing sounds seemed pointless – it was just meaningless noise – but I knew from experience that physical contact meant so much more. Body heat; proximity; the understanding that another human being cared for you. 

Finally he raised his face. I wiped his damp cheeks, brushing my knuckles over his skin. He caught my wrist and kissed my palm. The tenderness in that gesture caught me unawares, and my own eyes stung. I leaned in and kissed his chin. 

He smiled. It was wobbly, lips trembling, but it was there. I knew he’d taken a step away from that edge. 

When I moved my hands back to his belts, he stopped me with a single touch. Before I had time to doubt myself – to question his intentions and whether I’d misunderstood those kisses earlier – he was unfastening them himself. 

Oh. Of course it would be quicker if he did it. I stepped back, giving him space, watching intently as he undressed. He needed a shower; his skin was still slick with sweat, face streaked with dirt and blood. But his erection told me loud and clear what he wanted. I doubted a shower was part of that. 

What I hadn’t appreciated was quite how much he seemed to want me. His ferocious kiss took me by surprise. His tongue plundered my mouth, his lips mashing mine back against my teeth. I winced but said nothing, even when I tasted blood, but he must have tasted it too – he drew back, face crumpling with panic. 

I felt him pull away, mentally as well as physically. But he needed this. Needed _me._ I was prepared to give him whatever he wanted to get his head back together. So I leaned in, twined my arms around his neck, and gave him a simple close-mouthed kiss. And another. And another and another, until he kissed me back, desperate again, all tongue and no control.

When he picked me up, hands gripping the back of my thighs, I knew this wasn’t going to take long: - caveman wasn’t his usual style, but when it happened like this, it was quick, hard, and sometimes brutal, as if he needed to stamp his ownership on me. I wrapped my legs around his hips as he carried me to the bed. His wordless growl was a warning to let go, and a second later he’d thrown me onto the mattress. I bounced. No time to settle – he flipped me over with a single push.

I got up onto my hands and knees. I’d been hard since those first dry kisses against the side of my neck, and I fisted my dick now as I looked over my shoulder, imagining myself through his eyes. I dipped my back and stuck my ass out. I was rewarded with a hot flare of desire in his eyes.

He yanked open the top drawer of the nearest bedside table (it happened to be his side) and pulled out a bottle of lube. He flipped the lid and drizzled the cold, clear liquid over his trembling fingers, working me open with gentle but firm strokes. I let my head drop, shoulders flexing, losing myself in the sensations rippling through my body. He slid his free hand along my spine.

He replaced his fingers with the head of his cock. I held still as he pushed inside me, but the burning sting was too much; I reached back and touched his thigh, letting him know I needed a minute to adjust. Two months without him – without sex – was a long time. 

The glide of his fingertips over my ribs made me shiver. His hands closed over the curve of my ass, then moved up to my hips. Caressing. Impatient, yet waiting. Reverent.

When I felt I was ready I eased myself into a kneeling position. It felt so natural to lean back against him. The change in angle made the head of his cock brush over my prostate. I shivered again. He wrapped his arms around my torso, pressed his face against the back of my neck, and fucked me.

He started slow. It wasn’t going to stay that way for long. He was still too close to the edge for finesse. He’d given me time to adjust because he was a decent human being and he loved me, but each rough thrust told me his instincts were running high. 

I reached for my dick again, free hand braced against the headboard, but he grabbed my elbows and held me up. His grip was painful as his fingers dug in, breath harsh in my ear. Frantic. But the minor discomfort was almost eclipsed by the pleasure each pounding thrust drove through my body. I was desperate to touch myself, to jack off as he came, but he wouldn’t let me. 

Normally I would fight this. Fight _him._ Make him prove his dominance until I was a liquid, groaning mess underneath him. But right now? He didn’t have to prove a goddamned thing.

I recognised when he was about to come. Recognised the way he groaned, the intensity as his desire spiralled out of control. He wrapped his arms around me again and pulled me against his chest. 

His deep, almost tortured growl reverberated through us both. His hips twitched. Stilled.

We stayed like that – plastered together, each covered in sweat and, as he pulled out, come – while he tried to get his breath back. 

His hand brushed my dick. It was just a fleeting touch, but it was enough to make me gasp. I was so fucking hard for him but he pulled his hand away. 

I’d waited two months. He wouldn’t tease me like this for long. I could wait a couple minutes more.

I tugged his hand and led him into the bathroom. The walk-in shower was more than big enough for two, and it was finally time to get clean. As we entered he pulled me in for a deep, lingering kiss. I slid my hands over his chest and settled against him.

I peeled away long enough to get the shower going. Warm water spilled over us. I looked up at him through a veil, analysing every nuance of his body language.

His posture seemed more relaxed, but there was still a deep well of emotion in his eyes. He’d stepped away from the edge but he was still watching it. Would always be watching it, perhaps. I understood that. 

I reached for the soap and a cloth, washing him with slow, gentle movements. He always made sure some part of him was touching some part of me. His hand on my shoulder, arm, hip. Even though I was touching him, washing away the sweat and – yes, the blood from God-knew what battle – he seemed to need more contact. I understood that, too; our experiences had forged a bond, a shared comprehension of the horrors life could throw at us.

I cast an experienced eye over each wound as I got him clean. Long cuts, for the most part, shallow and already half-healed. I wondered how he’d got them. What he’d done, where he’d been, to give them time to partially heal like this. 

He’d been hurting… maybe alone… and I hadn’t been able to help him. 

I knew on a logical level that he had his thing and I had mine, that our jobs were solitary and rarely overlapped, but on an emotional level? Yeah, that shit was hard to deal with.

When he was clean, he took the cloth and soap from my unprotesting hands and returned the favour. It felt… in some ways, this was better than sex. More intimate. The slow glide of the soapy cloth over my skin, the rough sensation of his scarred fingertips. The sex had been about… about ownership, I guess, the fact that I belonged to him and he belonged to me.

But this was different. More reverential. An acknowledgement that we each allowed our ownership. We honoured, and we _were_ honoured.

Fuck this. I only thought about things so deeply when I was tired, and right now I was exhausted. I was also still horny. Each stream of water over my cock was torture.

And Stephen seemed to realise when I’d had enough teasing. His thorough, searching kiss signalled a change: - he angled us out of the spray, sank to his knees, and gripped my hips. I looked down at him, already breathing hard, excited, so in love with him it hurt. I smoothed his wet hair back from his forehead.

Our eyes met before his mouth closed over my cock. I jerked and gripped his shoulders. The hot, wet suction of his mouth was incredible, but it was the flick of his tongue that pushed me over. My legs trembled as I came, fingers digging into flesh, groaning his name. 

He changed his grip to help me slide down the tiles. He worked my cock until I had nothing left, until I became too sensitive. Then – because he could be an asshole sometimes – he kept working me, beyond that point, until I hissed and pushed him away. His dark chuckle was as annoying as it was delicious.

I slapped his shoulder and tried to stand up. He helped me, still laughing, then pulled me into a hot, deep kiss. His dick brushed my hip. Oh, boy… he was hard _again?_ I looked at him with a raised eyebrow. His wicked grin was all the answer I needed.

He turned the shower off and got us both dry. He might be ready for round two – round three, technically – but I wasn’t there yet. My legs felt like noodles. 

Back in the bedroom, I pushed the blankets aside and flopped onto the mattress. Now that Stephen was home I knew I could sleep. Maybe he would sleep, too. But the way his cock kept pressing against my ass told me sleep was still far from his mind.

I turned around so I was nestled against his chest. We started kissing; long, slow, languid kisses that turned dirty after just a few minutes. My erection was coming back. I wanted his hands on me, his touch, but none of those fleeting caresses came close enough – his fingertips moved over my thighs, my hips, my stomach.

I moved closer, grinding against him. God – the friction of my cock against his belly was incredible, and it was all I needed to get fully hard again.

He rolled me onto my back and reached for the lube. He looked at me with eyebrows raised. I smiled, nodded, and took the bottle from his hand.

I settled myself more comfortably against the pillows and took a minute to prep myself. He moved between my open legs. I smeared lube on his cock, sliding my fist over his length, smirking when he gasped and twitched. I tossed the bottle away and reached for him with greedy hands.

He eased inside me. It was less uncomfortable this time; I was more relaxed and he was gentler. I understood that the burning need driving him before – his uncontrolled desire for contact and comfort, to reaffirm our bond – had been sated. Blowing me in the shower had been the start of his apology. His gentle lovemaking now was a continuation of that.

I wrapped my arms and legs around him. He shuddered, eyes briefly closing.

I pulled his head down for a slow kiss. It was hardly a kiss at all, just an exchange of breath, but somehow more erotic because of it. And when he started to move, his strokes were just as slow. He wanted to make this last. So did I.

We stayed like that for what felt like forever. He maintained a steady pace, arms braced on either side of my head. Pleasure rose inside me in waves, like the sea lapping against the shore, each building on the one before. 

Eventually his pace increased. Our kiss deepened. His lips were hard and possessive against mine, each breath rough, laboured. When he came a low, rolling groan echoed in his throat. His hips jerked and finally stilled.

I let go of him long enough to reach between us. He got there first, his hand closing around my sensitive cock and moving just the way I liked. His eyes were still wide from his own orgasm, each pupil a huge black spot against the grey of his irises. He kissed me as I came. I grabbed him and held on tight, bucking against him as pleasure tore through every part of my body. 

Finally I slumped back against the bed. Exhausted… sated… sweating.

He gestured toward the bathroom and summoned a towel. He cleaned us up with slow movements, and when he was done I wriggled closer to him, already half-asleep. Both my mind and body were wrung dry. I could hardly keep my eyes open.

We wrapped ourselves around each other. The blanket felt so goddamned good against my heated skin, but what felt even better was knowing that the man I loved was home. 

For however long we had together – before he had to go back out again, or I did – he was safe. 

He was with me.

END


End file.
